Meat Recap

At 12:19am on April 1, my month-long flirtation with vegetarianism came to an end. And it was not a moment too soon.

I wish that I could say something positive about not eating meat (fish and other seafoods were allowed), but I’ve got nothing. It didn’t make me feel any better physically. It’s not like that by cleansing my body of meat products I became a better athlete, worker, lover, or person. This is probably because I replaced protein and vitamin-rich meat not with fish and vegetables, but pasta and pizza. LOTS of pasta and pizza.

I didn’t feel morally better. As I’ve said, I firmly believe that God put animals on this earth for us to dominate, eat, and perhaps train to perform simple household chores. So I could care less if I saved a few chickens or cows. They’re born to be eaten, so if I felt anything, it was guilt about not taking advantage of the plentiful bounty that God has provided us (especially when so many of His children can’t).

I didn’t feel sexier. A lot of women readers wrote in and said that I should try to use my vegetarianism to impress women. The women who suggested this obviously don’t know me very well. Any sex appeal (and I use that word in the loosest possible sense) I have is based on being a man, a real man, an alpha male. I have lots of body hair; I’m fat and have fat boy strength; I like drinking beer and yelling; I get jealous if other guys talk to you and will beat up any co-worker who hits on you (never mind that I listen to Sade in the shower and have a good cry). Vegetarianism is the antithesis of my "man" persona and is essentially emasculating. So in between taking shots of whiskey and yelling about titties and "god damn Mexicans", dropping "I’m a vegetarian" didn’t work out very well.

I did, however, feel a little superior. I found myself looking down on the meat-eating peasants, feeling much more sophisticated than the assholes lining up in Burger King for a meat fix. But that was quickly replaced by jealousy, because, well, I wanted some Burger King, too.

On Friday night, March 31, I had dinner with two friends. We went to this new Thai restaurant. Long story short, my last vegetarian meal was delicious: fish cakes, tuna tartar, and chilean sea bass. And a lot of wine.

After leaving the dinner, I joined my friend Michael and some friends for drinks. But I was itching. I knew at midnight I could have meat, and god damn it, that’s what I was going to do.

So just before midnight, I pulled what my friend Michael calls an "Irish exit" - I left the bar without telling anyone. I said I was going to make a call and just kept on walking. I was going to get a gyro.

Why I decided that my first meat-meal in over 30 days would come from a middle-aged Arab man slicing processed meat of questionable origin off a spit, I do not know. But when I started digging into that gyro at 12:19am, it was all good.

…Until I was done, when my stomach staged a small revolt. Perhaps even a revolution. Over the next day and a half, I was hurting. I am no stranger to gastrointestinal pain, but this was something new. And not good.

But I soldiered on: bacon, egg, and cheese bagel for breakfast, chicken salad sandwich for lunch, chicken parm dinner. This was only the beginning.

I’ve been eating meat a breakneck pace and my body seems to have righted myself. Just in time too, because I’m going to Philly tonight, and you can bet your ass that when I pick up my friend Dave, he and I are going to Jim’s and I’m getting TWO steaks, extra whiz, without. I have a boner just thinking about this.

So it’s over, dead and done. Thank god. It was a stupid and miserable experience, but I have a (small) measure of happiness having proved to myself that I could do it. So to my friends who doubted me, HA HA! Take that, bitches.

(To which they have been replying, "Yeah, but you were miserable for a month, so you kinda lose." Irrelevant. Totally irrelevant.)